


SHIELD Academy

by sweetmyungsoo



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetmyungsoo/pseuds/sweetmyungsoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to SHIELD Academy. This is the backyard of SHIELD, the behind-the-scenes lab they send all information to. This is where SHIELD raises its recruits. As told by a familiar Agent Jemma Simmons, her story unfolds. How she met her greatest partner, Agent Leopold Fitz. How she rose to where she is today. Pre-show, FitzSimmons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SHIELD Academy

**Author's Note:**

> currently in the process of uploading fics from fanfiction.net to ao3; this is something i wrote in feb 2014

The tall walls loomed over Jemma as she took her first step into the school that would change her life forever.

Jemma Simmons clutched her small little briefcase of things. She was going to SHIELD Academy for biochemistry, but she didn’t know what this government-insured school really wanted from her.

She was Jemma Simmons, a girl from a small town in England. What could be so special about her? She was just a girl who loved science and math. She was just so normal.

The gates opened creaking slowly. They seemed to leer at her, and Jemma felt insignificantly small. But, if there was one thing Jemma was sure she felt about this, she was going to find out why she was here whether she liked it or not.

…

It was there—when Jemma first accepted her schedule—that she felt that prickly feeling on the back of her neck. You know, the one that lets you know that someone’s watching you. Jemma shot a glance over her shoulder, seeking eyes.

Any normal girl might not have spotted this small little abnormality, but Jemma had a knack for these things. Out of 200-something people in the hallways, her eyes sought out the one.

Rats, thought Jemma. It was a boy. She blinked, sizing him up. He looked like a classic proper gentleman. His sweater vest combination suited him well (the vest showed good taste), and his curly hair looked perfectly rufflable. Despite never having seen this boy before, Jemma itched to take her hand and run it through his hair. She wondered offhandedly what shampoos and conditioners he used. She bet it was as soft as silk. Jemma could never get her own rag doll hair to even be straight, much less soft.

Er— sorry. You lot came blame that part on the scientist part of her.

The boy had an innocent face with a wide nose and high cheekbones. He seemed the type to always be smiling, but his eyebrows were slanted upward mischievously, leaving Jemma confused. Either way, she wasn’t one to judge at first sight. Plus, she remembered, he was the one who’d been staring at her.

And Jemma wasn’t even pretty! Not even remotely!

Summoning up her courage (from who knows where), she glided— oh, who was she kidding? She tramped— to a spot about 2 feet in front of the boy.

He blinked, leaning away from her unconsciously. Or, perhaps it was consciously. See, that right there was something Jemma was more used to.

“If you want to stare at someone, you can stare them in the face,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I wasn’t staring,” he bristled.

“Oh, really,” she mused. Really, if there was one thing this boy was worse at than staring, it had to be lying.

“I happen to be a new student, and I thought I might take in my surroundings. New school and all,” he supplied.

Despite Jemma’s irritation, she couldn’t help her curiosity. “So am I,” she said suspiciously. She narrowed her eyes at him.

The boy offered a tight smile. “Fitz.” He held out his hand.

“What?” she barked.

“Fitz.”

“Fitz what?”

“My name. It’s Leopold Fitz.”

“The Fitz part doesn’t sound right. It sounds like there needs to be something after it. Fitzpatrick, maybe?”

“I’ll have you know,” he said sternly, “the Fitz family name has been alive for generations. And I won’t be taking any nonsense from any English properwoman like yourself,” he spat.

Jemma hid an amused smile and continued on her rant. Lord knows why she was ranting about a name to a complete stranger. Never mind the fact that she was ranting to a very handsome, very Scottish stranger. “And there’s the matter of your first name. It’s too short. I for one wouldn’t have pegged you as a Leopold.”

“Frankly, I don’t care what you would have pegged me as. Although,” he added, finding something else distracting enough to forget Jemma’s jab at his name, “if you are looking for suggestions, how about cute? Adorable?” he smirked, waggling an eyebrow.

Jemma wrinkled her nose in disgust. “More like scrawny.”

“Scrawny?” Fitz repeated incredulously.

“Scrawny,” she confirmed apologetically.

To Jemma’s surprise, it didn’t keep him down for long. A smile soon tugged at Leo’s lips to which Jemma felt very satisfied. “And then there’s you,” he remarked.

“Yes?” she said slowly, drawing the word out so he would understand that she hadn’t understood what he’d meant by that at all.

“What’s your name?” he clarified.

“I hardly think it would be suitable telling a complete stranger my name.”

“Well, you were the crazy person who happened to have sought out me,” Fitz pointed out delicately.

Jemma shot him a nasty glare, and turned her back on him for once grateful for the length of her hair. The brat had actually called her crazy to her face. She whipped him in the face, and continued her search of this godforsaken school. It just had to be so big.

But, Jemma realized cheerfully, she’d never have to see Leo’s smirking face again if this school was really that big.

“Jemma!” he called.

She froze in her tracks, and turned. Her heart pounded hard, and it was not because she was mildly attracted to witty men. “How do you know my name? If you are some crazy stalker, please go away and take whatever you need. Wait— isn’t that what people say when they’re getting robbed? Or are Americans the only ones who do that? Oh, bugger. Mother warned me. I should have listened to her.” Jemma always started talking fast when she got nervous or scared. It was a bad habit, and most of her old friends back home never understood her speedy speech. Fitz didn’t seem too incomprehensive though, she noted.

Fitz blinked. “I was reading your nametag.”

“Oh.” Oh. Oh. Jemma flushed scarlet. For all the tricks she had up her sleeve, she just had to be truly rubbish when it came to anything practical, right? Jemma always had to look totally completely stupid in front of a very cute impressive—

Wait.

_He was staring at my nametag on my—?!_

“YOU WERE STARING AT MY—?” she gasped, truly horrified. So much for being innocent.

Fitz blinked again, this time flushing bright red just as Jemma had done. (And if possible, even redder.) “Uh, no. Everybody’s wearing a nametag, since that’s how we all will learn each other’s names.”

“And you?” spat Jemma.

“I’m not nearly that modest. I can’t have the ladies stalking me,” admitted Leo gravely.

Jemma gave him a very, very cross look, the best one she could do.

“All right,” he conceded, sheepishly rubbing the side of his neck. “It’s on the inside of my jacket which is in my dorm room.”

“Where everybody can see it,” she noted drily.

“Just about.”

Jemma blinked, startled by the brashness of his comment. “And why might I ask am I still talking to you?” she wondered rhetorically, even adding an eye roll to the mix.

“Perhaps my stunning looks have persuaded you to stick around,” Fitz quipped, sounding chipper.

Jemma raised an eyebrow in mixed disbelief and mixed disgust and ensured that would be the last thing he saw of her. She turned her back on him, and he let her go.

Jemma wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t want to see Leo Fitz again. She just hoped her luck would hold.

…

Jemma’s luck ran out rather quickly.

And this was all when Jemma thought she’d settled pretty well in her dorm. She’d become decent mates with her bunkmates, three girls each named Ava, Lily, and Christine. Jemma found out rather quickly their lack of interest in anything academic. This had her very perplexed as to why they were in this school at all. Jemma was on scholarship, but she didn’t tell them that.

Honestly, take the time she’d tried to ask for some help with some practice math problems. The school year hadn’t started yet, but Jemma had always considered herself as well-prepared. Jemma couldn’t get the Calculus problem if she tried.

“Hey, do you guys know how to do this problem?” asked Jemma.

Each of the girls languidly looked up from whatever they were doing at the moment: anything from iPad-playing, iPod-listening, and (Ava, the most modest) book-reading. “No,” they said together.

One girl (Jemma thought it was Christine) looked up and said, “Doesn’t school start in 2 days? How do you already have homework? And why are you doing it?”

Jemma blinked. “It’s practice,” she said testily.

“Jemma, darling, have you ever in your life been to a party?”

Jemma blinked again, her temper flaring. “Yes, I have, thank you very much.”

“Tell you what,” she drawled, lifting a finger groggily. Jemma wondered if she could be drunk. Or maybe she was American. Jemma never knew much about Americans. It just happened so very inconveniently that everyone at this school was in fact American. Well, she amended, there was one notable exception. “How about you and me go tonight to a back-to-school party?” suggested Christine.

“No, thank you,” Jemma declined tightly. “I’ll just find the answer myself.”

“Suit yourself.”

A few minutes or 4 problems later (Jemma skipped the buggy one), Christine asked, “Have you met any boys yet?”

“What kind of question is that?” she exploded. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is that supposed to be insulting? Because if it is—”

“Chill. I was just asking. And by the looks of it,” she added, her eyes raking over Jemma in a way that made her feel immensely uncomfortable, “I’d say you haven’t.”

“I have too!” defended Jemma.

“Oh, yeah? Tell us who.”

Jemma saw the other girl straighten up to her full height. Jemma swallowed, wishing she were taller. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the other two girls who’d previously been silent sit up in their beds. They’d finally found something interesting. “Well,” she blubbered, “there was this boy who was staring at me the other day, so I called him out for it. So, yeah,” she finished lamely. The reason she hadn’t told them all about her (still) disturbing conversation with Leo Fitz (grr) was because she wasn’t entirely comfortable they wanted to help her. They didn’t seem like the type that would be Jemma’s friends. Plus, there was another reason, one that Jemma would never dare voice out loud. That conversation had felt private. Jemma wanted to keep it between her and Leo.

Christine (she was positive it was Christine) deflated from her aggressive stance. She flopped theatrically into the nearest chair. “Oh, man. And here I was thinking I could get the scoop on someone good.”

Lily, a mostly quiet redhead, stood up. “Jemma, when you see a boy staring at you, that usually means something good’s going to happen. You don’t scare the poor boy away.”

“I didn’t scare him away!” protested Jemma.

Ava shut her book. “You should go apologize. That was mean.”

Jemma was outraged. How could they say that? “What? What are you talking about?”

“Was he cute?” demanded Lily excitedly. “Ooh, I bet he was.”

“What? I guess, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with this!” exclaimed Christine, waving her hands dramatically.

Jemma felt suddenly dizzy. She put a hand on her head, which throbbed painfully especially near her temples. “Oh, God. What have I done with my life?” she groaned to the world.

Christine smirked confidently. “Now we’re talking. The next time you see that boy, Jem, make sure you ask him out.”

Jemma blinked furiously. She opened her mouth to say something equally biting, but Ava scampered out of her bunk suddenly and extinguished the light on Jemma’s study lamp.

“Hey!” hissed Jemma.

The only light visible was a tiny ray of moonlight peeking in through the curtains. Ava put her finger up to her lips, shushing Jemma. “I thought I heard footsteps.”

4 girls went painfully, impossibly still.

A stray floorboard creaked from right outside the door. The girls slipped into their beds just as stealthily as they’d left them. “Why would anyone be looking for us?” whispered Jemma.

Lily’s bed was the closest to Jemma’s. “Because,” she pointed out tenderly, “curfew was 2 hours ago.”

Jemma’s mouth fell open even though she lay on her side. “No way!” she exclaimed.

Ava shushed her once more.

And it was in that tense silence that Jemma realized Christine had called her Jem. What an interesting way of shortening an already short name. The tense silence dissipated soon after the footsteps receded, but the girls stuck to their beds and shut their mouths, leaving Jemma very confused, part hopeful, and part sleepy.

Mostly sleepy, which is why Jemma succumbed to the gentle arms a little after that.

…

Jemma woke up early the next day, before— oh, let’s say— half the freshman class, and tidied up her book bag and added neat book covers to all her books. She brought out her tiny travel-size lint roller from her suitcase and neatly removed all lint from her navy blue sweater-vest combination.

What? Jemma couldn’t possibly look dreadful on the first day. First impressions were important.

Jemma made her way very meticulously to her first class. Engineering. The teacher introduced basic concepts, and the whole class participated in an enriching activity to learn the names of everybody in the class. Several minutes later, Jemma forcibly told herself not to be disappointed. The first day was always the easiest. It always got harder the next day.

Jemma made her way to the second class, Chemistry, looking a little down. Up in her head, she’d conjectured to prove that if the first course was as unenlightening as it was, the second would probably be just the same.

Oh, she had no idea just how wrong she was. Things would get interesting real soon.

…

A boy rushed into the Chemistry classroom. “Sorry, I was late. Math teacher held me back.” Jemma didn’t look up from her textbook, but the voice was distinctly heavily accented. Jemma’s brow furrowed, and she ordered herself not to look up. She was playing a game against herself: guess the nationality of the voice. Jemma had to say Welsh or Irish from the little sample she’d gotten just now.

Jemma had a knack for languages as well.

But Jemma didn’t need to know the language to know the voice was familiar. Jemma’s eyes zipped up from her textbook, confirming the worst. Rats! It was him. Leo Fitz. The very person Jemma was trying to avoid.

Jemma dug her nose back into her textbook, trying to hide the pinpointed warm spots on her cheeks. But Jemma’s embarrassment was fleeting and a sudden chill coursed through her body. Her eyes flitted to the empty seat on her left. The only empty seat in the entire room.

Jemma saw it coming before it even happened. The teacher, a balding guy named Dr. Franklin Hall looked over his list. “Yes, yes,” he muttered absent-mindedly, taking the green pass from the boy’s bewildered hands. Dr. Hall tossed the pass in the recycling bin, and ushered him to take an empty seat. Leo Fitz scanned the entire room for an empty table, but found none except for the one next to a brown-haired girl completely immersed in her book. He shuffled over to the seat, without tripping like Jemma might’ve, and set his books down gently.

Jemma’s heart soared and dipped at the same time, a strange and completely alien feeling. If it was possible, Jemma focused on her book even harder. (So hard that her eyes nearly popped from strain.)

“Okay there, Miss Nametag?” taunted Fitz.

Jemma allowed herself a smile. All right, he wasn’t completely thick.

“You can stop hiding. Your hair’s not exactly camouflage material.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes coldly, slamming the book shut. She set it down, and turned to face Fitz in the eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

The smirk vanished. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, seriously contrite.

Jemma pursed her lips. “What did you mean?” she repeated, this time in a much calmer tone.

“It’s one-of-a-kind,” admitted Fitz in a strangled voice.

Jemma raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure whether that was compliment or criticism.

“In a good way,” he added. “I mean, your hair’s sort of red and sort of brown and sort of blond, and I bet it shines in the sun. And it smells like strawberries,” he babbled.

Jemma blinked. “Since when do you have a government file on my hair?”

“Oh, um, I—” Fitz stuttered. Jemma was acutely aware of the red blush creeping up his neck. Jemma was about to press him into sputtering out something that she’d later use against him, when the girl in front of her turned around to pass back class papers.

Jemma didn’t exactly get the chance to memorize her face, but she heard the girl’s words loud and clear as she passed back a thick stack of papers. “You know, you should pick a different class to flirt in.”

Jemma didn’t know whose face was redder: hers or Fitz. Jemma took the cardstock stiffly, and stole two for herself and her partner. She passed the stack to the table behind her, and bore her eyes into the paper.

“Okay, class,” began Dr. Hall, “I have to learn all your names by the end of the week, so I’m going to have you help me out here. You’ve just gotten a piece of paper. I’d like you to fold it hot-dog style, and then write your names any way you like and in any color on one side. You’ll then prop the paper up like a table card and angle it to the front of the classroom so I can see all your names. Clear? Wonderful,” he said, without waiting for a class response. Dr. Hall went back to sitting in his chair.

Jemma squinted even harder at the paper. “Just out of curiosity,” she whispered to Fitz, “what’s a hot-dog style?”

Fitz stayed silent for the longest time before answering. “No idea,” he whispered back.

“Great,” Jemma sighed in a more normal voice. Looking to the Americans at her right dutifully folding stuff, she repeated the question to them.

The helpful American boy explained to her hot-dog and hamburger styles of folding, which despite thoroughly confusing her at first, she repeated verbatim to an equally perplexed Fitz.

Jemma folded her own paper, and wrote her name plainly in green marker. Fitz rushed to copy her. Jemma set her paper in front of her, and angled it to examine it very closely. She left it there, not yet turning the paper around. Fitz finished, and put his card next to hers.

He’d written his in a red elegant cursive, and the corner of Jemma’s mouth twitched embarrassingly. “Look at our names,” he mused cheerily.

“What about them?” wondered Jemma.

“Well, if you read them together, they flow well. Not the Leo Fitz Jemma Simmons, but our last names. FitzSimmons.”

Jemma blinked. And then she blinked again. And then she surprised herself. Instead of making fun of the poor boy, she found herself agreeing with him. “It fits.”

“Wait,” Fitz said abruptly. He hadn’t understood her. “Which ‘fits’ do you mean? The Fitz with a z or the fits with an s?”

Jemma blinked again, her mouth curving into a wry smile. “The one with the s, I think.”

“Okay, cool,” he said indifferently.

And that’s when FitzSimmons was truly born.

…

Okay, it was right after the birth of FitzSimmons that Jemma and Leo and pretty much everyone in that American class learned the truth. Any hopes of Jemma staying alive and safe as her mother had insisted (much less innocent) died with this particular incident.

So Dr. Hall had just finished the whole nametag ordeal, and the whole class was chattering excitedly. Dr. Hall sat down on a rolling chair and faced the class comfortably. Jemma found that partially unfair mostly due to the fact that the instructors had managed to weasel themselves comfier chairs that the flat plastic ones Jemma and the rest of the student body were suffering in now.

“So, what are you all doing here?” said Dr. Hall conversationally.

Instantly, the class went silent. Jemma might have been British, but she definitely knew something was up for whole slew of reasons: a) Teachers even back home never were so casual and b) well, the same as the previous reason. The point was teachers weren’t that casual.

Some boy spoke up from a corner of the room. “Chemistry,” he called out.

Hall acknowledged the voice, nodding mostly to himself. “But what else?” he pressed.

Jemma cursed inwardly. She hated, hated, hated it when teacher asked philosophical questions like these. They made her feel utterly stupid when she didn’t know the answer.

The class was silent. Jemma wanted to snort, knowing very well these chatterboxes would never be the same level of quiet again for the rest of their lives, but she held it in.

After about 3 minutes of this silence, Hall sighed and reached for something behind his desk. He pulled it out, and at first Jemma thought it was some remote for the projector, but she realized it wasn’t pretty soon. It was a remote, but there was only one button on it and it was a huge big conspicuous red. Like from those cartoons where the villain held the key to his contraption in his hand…

“Does anybody know what this is?” called Dr. Hall.

Some people were daring enough to shake their heads.

Dr. Hall rolled his eyes (which Jemma had never ever seen a teacher do in all her life) and pressed the button lackadaisically. The bright shutters which had been open flipped shut (remotely, Jemma knew) and the door slammed shut where it had been open by a fraction of an inch. The natural light dimmed to a point where everyone could see the enlargement of each other’s pupils. Jemma certainly could in Fitz. Not that she was looking at— never mind.

A projector that lay directly over Jemma’s head (which she hadn’t noticed before in her survey of the room) whirred to life, taking no more than two seconds to start up, a feat worthy of Jemma’s praise. She made a mental note to invest in projectors like those when she was watching movies.

Immediately the screen was filled with a completely black color. In the center was the strangest image, one Jemma had never before seen in her life. A ring of silver a bit like an emblem, and inside was the picture of the backside of a bird’s wings, spread wide. And Jemma got the strangest feeling that that bird (she could swear it looked like an eagle) was shielding the audience from something.

“Anybody know what this is?” tried Dr. Franklin Hall. When no one answered, he sighed and shook his head. “I swear the number of recruits grows each year, and they all lose a couple brain cells in the process,” he muttered.

“This is the emblem for SHIELD, the government facility.” A couple hands shot eagerly into the air, but Dr. Hall waved them down, saying, “It stands Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. Make a note.”

Jemma raised her hand politely. “Uh, Dr. Hall?” she quavered nervously.

“Yes?”

“SHIELD wouldn’t happen to be the government insuring this school, would it?” she asked tentatively.

Dr. Hall’s eyes flashed appreciatively. “Finally, we have a winner.” He squinted at her name tag, saying, “A Miss Simmons, I think.”

“You think correctly, sir.”

Dr. Hall nodded, pleased. “And Miss Simmons, although you are clearly the brightest of this lot, I’d like to correct you on one thing. SHIELD isn’t the government insuring this school. SHIELD is this school. Welcome to SHIELD Academy, lads and lassies,” he finished, excitedly dropping into a Welsh/Scottish accent that had Jemma instantly thinking of Fitz.

Right on cue, Fitz raised his hand indignantly. “I’m sorry, sir, but us people don’t talk like that. Not really.”

He shrugged. “Apologies, mate.” Australian, this time. Dr. Hall winked at a student sitting in the front row, and said, “You’ll pick up more than a few useful skills in the field.”

“We’re going in the field?” squeaked a timid girl who’d gotten stuck in the seat right in front of Dr. Hall.

Dr. Hall blinked. “Oh, no. I was speaking figuratively, as in our Science and Technology area of expertise. SciTech, for short,” he confided.

A girl in a plaid uniform stood up from the back of the room. Instead of addressing Dr. Hall, she addressed the class. “Are you guys really buying into this load of crap? This is so absurd that it’s a wonder they even try to make us believe.” After seeing a couple of nodding heads, she turned to Dr. Hall. “I’m sorry, but we need proof.”

Dr. Hall smiled, but it was a smile tinged with sadness. “I’d bet my boots you aced your Geometry proofs in high school,” he said, slipping into the voice of a Texas Ranger.

The girl crossed her arms, and corrected rather haughtily, “I did geometry in the seventh grade.”

“Well, you’re more than qualified for this, then aren’t you?” said Dr. Hall in his normal voice. (Or at least his American-English voice.)

The girl had lost her courage, seemingly at a loss for words. She frustratingly slumped down in her chair. She mumbled something unintelligible from Jemma’s distance, but Jemma was more than sure it was not kind enough to repeat.

Dr. Hall who was probably standing closer to the girl than Jemma was did not comment on that part. But he did object, “Now just a minute, young lady. What’d you say your name was?”

“Morgan Stewart,” she said tightly.

“Well, Ms. Stewart, I say we can give you extra credit for your insightful thinking today. Don’t you all agree?” he muttered.

She sat up again, her interest revived. “Sure,” she chimed, while the entire rest of the class groaned.

“I thought so,” he murmured, turning to his computer to look for something. He clicked on something on the screen with his mouse, which apparently government people still used. Jemma half-expected them to use hovercrafts, but honestly, what had she been expecting? To be truthful, nothing. Jemma was terrible in the moment, but if there was one thing she excelled at, it was preparation.

Dr. Hall looked up suddenly, looking each and every one of the students in the eye. Jemma felt chills travel up and down her spine as he looked at her with those eerily lucid hazel eyes. “Now I will read to all of you the real course description for this class. By the end of the day, in whichever class you are in, you will have to make your decision. Are you in for this bandwagon, or are you not? SHIELD has requested us not to goad you into any decision, but be warned. What all you have just learned is highly classified information; you will not walk away holding this information,” he said seriously.

A deep voice far to Jemma’s left grunted. “You mean you’ll wipe our minds if we say no? That’s no choice.”

“Oh, no, there’s always a choice,” said Dr. Hall, his voice uncharacteristically bitter. “It’s just you have to consider the consequences of each choice.”

There was a tense silence that ensued.

Dr. Hall’s dark mood brightened suddenly. “Well, I’ll read to you what I have to. This is Chemistry 1, where we all will analyze tissue samples. This course will help develop problem-solving skills related to that is related to the nature of matter, chemical reactions, stoichiometry, energy transformations, atomic and molecular structure, quantum theory, chemical bonding, and periodic properties, as all average regular chemistry courses in schools along the coast offer. In comparison, there isn’t much difference between a course like this at the Academy and a course at a regular private school, but there is a noticeable gap in your other classes. We are SHIELD’s backyard. This is where we nurture the SHIELD of the next generation. We are the lab. We will get an up-close look at real live data that is not simulations. I want you all to know that everything we do here in this course is utterly real. While some of what we do is fun, most of what we will accomplish will require an open mind. This is serious, and it may not be what you originally intended to attend this school for, but I will be perfectly satisfied with whichever choice you make.”

In fact, Jemma was pretty sure Dr. Hall would have spent the rest of the day talking about the course if not for the timely as ever ring of the bell signaling all the students’ release.

Fitz was the first one out of the class, if that made any difference. Truthfully, Jemma hadn’t wanted to linger about longer than she had to, but somehow she found herself at the back of the pack trudging outside.

She was just out the door and into freedom when Dr. Hall called out, “Uh, Miss Simmons, a word, please?”

Well, it’s not like Jemma could blatantly disregard a teacher’s wishes. God, that made her sound like a teacher’s pet, but nevertheless, no matter how much Jemma wanted to leave, she forced herself to turn around with a charming smile on her face and addressed Dr. Hall. “Yes, sir?”

“I thought you might want to know I’ve added some extra credit to your name as well for your contribution to the class today. That is all,” he said briskly. His eyes never even left the computer screen.

Jemma blinked, that tight feeling in her chest evaporating. Oh, and here she was thinking it had been something bad, like…well, let’s not delve into all those other possibilities, eh? “Oh, thank you, sir.” Jemma backtracked so hastily, she almost tripped over her own feet leaving the place.

All in all, a decent first impression.

…

Jemma hated surprises. Hated, hated them.

So when Leo Fitz pogoes into her line of view as she’s leaving the Chemistry, she jumps and gives out an audible yelp. Quite embarrassing, exactly. Her heart’s racing again, and this time it is from the shock.

Fitz wastes no time. “So, what did he want?” he demanded excitedly, reminding Jemma of an overactive puppy. The image has her laughing inside and it immediately calms her racing pulse.

“He just gave me some extra credit, that’s all,” she said nonchalantly.

Fitz grumbled deep in the back of his throat. He murmured something unintelligible that Jemma chose to pay no attention to.

This moment was quickly becoming trying, decided Jemma. “Look,” she started out, feeling very self-conscious with Leo’s eyes on her, “I’ve got to get to my next class…so, um if you could move out of the way?” Jemma hated herself for the way her voice sounds. Weak, cracking, and inexperienced.

“Oh, sure,” bumbled Fitz, going out of his way to move.

Jemma smiled awkwardly, stretching out into a stride. Ah, it felt good to stand and walk after being cramped up in that seat for ages. Jemma was just beginning to get comfortable, when she noticed something.

Fitz was still next to her, keeping stride with her, and battering away. “Yeah, so I was like, ‘No way,’ and he goes, ‘Yes way,’ and I say….”

Jemma stopped. She looked him in the eye. “Are you going to follow me around like this all day?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. I don’t have anything better to do. Unless I freak you out, and I should…stop?” Fitz was so adorable when he had no idea what to do.

Jemma was about to tell him off, when she surprised herself again. “No, no. It’s fine. It’s a rather refreshing change,” she admitted shyly.

Fitz blinked, having expected a different response close to that of Jemma’s original inclinations toward him. “Uh, okay…So where was I? Right, so when Jason says I should stop and try this method to get to the solution, I get all annoyed because he’s doing it completely utterly wrong, and I come here and save the day and tell him how to properly administer isoproterenol while an inpatient is undergoing surgery.”

Jemma tuned out the rest of his monologue, but thought to herself for a while. Having a Fitz at SHIELD Academy could be very, very handy indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
